Passing the Time
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock and Molly attempt to cross the Alps, but with less success than Hannibal. Sherlolly


The trip was supposed to have been a reward, a thank you of sorts, if Sherlock Holmes ever did that sort of thing. He had been working a minor case, a five at most, and the one last step was to make his way, undercover, to Switzerland, new wife in hand, to deal with some pressing, and definitely illegal, money issues. A trip on the train to Paris, a three night stay to allow for some sightseeing and to establish their undercover identity, and then a leisurely trip eastward, in a rental car, to Zurich, Switzerland. Perhaps they would take a detour to visit Geneva, perhaps not. The more time he and Molly Hooper spent looking like innocent tourist newlyweds, the better. And Molly, never having been to Paris, was sure to look appropriately starry eyed and romantically inclined.

The trip had gone well, up to a point. Sherlock, having seen Paris on any number of previous occasions, was pleasantly surprised to find his interest in the city renewed by his pathologist's enthusiasm. They had done all the touristy things. The Louvre, bateau mouche on the Seine, Notre Dame, et cetera. Over the years, Sherlock and Molly had fallen into an easy relationship, and the detective was more than grateful to have a companion with whom to share his work, especially now that John Watson had settled down with his family. He couldn't possibly have talked John into a slow trip across the continent, especially as a newlywed!

Everything had gone exceedingly well. That is, until, in an effort to show Molly some of the picturesque parts of Switzerland, Sherlock had eschewed the use of motorways in favor of the more pastoral roads, and subsequent mountain passes, on the drive toward Zurich. Weather can be changeable, and somewhat unpredictable, in the Alps, and what had started out as a pleasant Spring morning in April had turned into an overcast afternoon, and a threatening evening. Snow had begun falling late in the day, but the pair pushed onward, Sherlock insisting they would make it through the mountain pass in good time, he was proved to be a far better detective than weather prognosticator. The winding road had become unmanageable in the rapidly falling snow, visibility, and accumulating drifts, making it almost impossible to continue. But Sherlock Holmes, never one to give up, soldiered slowly on until well past ten o'clock at night, when the engine spluttered to a halt. He pulled the car over, and quickly went to check the boot for any emergency supplies. He found an emergency blanket and a flashlight, but nothing more. Molly had some crackers in her purse, left over from the late lunch they had eaten in Geneva, and there was a single bottle of water, with a few sips missing, in the console between them. It looked like they were about to spend a cold and hungry night on the mountain.

"Sherlock, what's going on?", Molly spoke with a bit of concern.

"It seems the engine has stopped, Molly."

"Believe it or not, I figured that out all on my own, Sherlock. What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I thought I'd just sit back and wait for an wandering mechanic, Dr. Hooper. There should be one along at any moment, don't you think?"

"Oh, great, sarcasm! That should keep us warm!"

"Molly, really, there's no reason to panic. We're in an enclosed space, with an emergency blanket, and enough food and water to keep us going for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. That should be plenty of time for one of those St. Bernards with the cask of brandy around their necks to reach us." He then yelped a bit as the petite pathologist punched his upper arm. "Really, Molly, we'll be fine. I think Mycroft had a microchip embedded in me during my last stay in rehab. Something like you'd use to find a lost pet. I am never far off his radar, you know. I'm sure he'll come to our rescue, just so he can rub my nose in it at a later date. Or coerce me into taking one of his mundane cases."

"So, we're going to be okay, then?"

"Of course we are! Would I lie to you?" The detective thought better of his last remark when his saw the look in the woman's eyes.

"I'm beginning to wish you had brought John along on this case, Sherlock."

"So am I, Molly. He's a much better mechanic than you are. Not so good at cuddling, though." Sherlock mused.

"Which then begs the question of how you would know about John's cuddling abilities, Sherlock."

"The answer involves a bottle of Scotch, a night in Portsmouth, and an unexpected fall off a dock. Nothing unusual. Or romantic, I assure you."

"I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock!"

They passed some time in silence, as the wind howled around them, and snow slowly covered the lower part of the vehicle. The couple huddled under the metallic emergency blanket, with Sherlock, additionally, trying to enclose the smaller woman with the confines of his flowing Belstaff as much as possible. Both were trying to doze, but neither was succeeding.

"Sherlock, my toes are freezing!"

"Well, you've surely heard the expression, 'cold hands, warm heart'. What do you suppose cold feet portend?"

"Indecision, or cowardice, as I recall, Sherlock. But, in this case, I would say it rather means frostbite!"

"Well, wiggle them around to get the circulation going! It's hardly cold enough in here to induce frostbite, Molly!"

"I'm the doctor, Sherlock, remember? And if I say I have frostbitten toes…"

"You're wrong!" the detective said in a huff. "Your toes are currently encased in socks, and boots, as well as covered by my legs, my coat, and an emergency blanket! You do not have frostbite, so calm down."

Molly sniffed a bit, and settled down a bit more onto his chest, trying to gather all the warmth possible. "Sherlock, what if we die?"

"We are not going to die, Molly. We're going to be cold and hungry for a brief period of time until someone comes along to clear the road. Don't worry so much."

"I'm sure that's what that iceman thought, too!"

"What iceman, Molly. Are you referring to my brother?"

"No, you git! That poor prehistoric man that they found frozen and preserved in the mountains after thousands of years. In the Alps, no less!"

"Well, in our case, we will provide a treasure trove of information about our culture, our sense of style, or, in your case, our lack of style, and the questionable dependability of our motorized transport vehicles."

Molly suppressed a giggle, saying, "Just great! My greatest contribution to science will be my frozen corpse, found huddling in a disabled vehicle, with an equally frigid male of the species!"

"Really, Molly? I never thought of myself as frigid. Merely very selective."

"Please don't joke, Sherlock. I'm in no mood for jokes at the moment."

Sherlock could sense the change in her mood. Her nervousness was now beginning to change to fear. The detective knew that the odds were in their favor. That this was a well-traveled road. That the storm had been merely a late spring aberration, and that traffic would resume rather quickly. One night in a cold car was not likely to be the end of them. But if Molly Hooper was beginning to really believe that it may be, he rather dreaded what would come out of her mouth next.

"Sherlock, I really do love you, you know."

And there it was. He knew. Of course he knew. Molly was not nearly as gifted as himself as hiding her feelings. He knew that it had started as a crush, an infatuation, but that it had grown over these past several years. He had always been aware of her glances, her smiles, her blushes, although she had often assumed that he was oblivious. His own glances, smiles, and even the occasional flush, had been more cleverly hidden. There had always been something holding him back. His two-year long "death", her engagement, his exile. But, always, in the back of his mind, he had assumed that, inevitably, there would come a time when the subject could not be avoided, and he would have to admit to his pathologist, and himself, just how much she meant to him, too. But she was feeling just a bit too vulnerable at the moment, perhaps not thinking too clearly, and he had to consider that now was not that time. She would, quite possibly, believe him for the moment, but when rescue came in the morning, as it was sure to do, she may begin to think that he had made his declaration only to comfort her in a time of need. So all he managed to say was, "I know."

"You know? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say, Molly? That I had no idea? I am a detective, after all. I deduce things. Of course I know that you care for me! What I can't possibly discern is why you do!"

Surprisingly, Molly took this all in good grace, saying with a smile, "I guess I just have a thing for sociopaths. Or sociopathic wannabes. I did date Jim, remember?"

"Not something I am likely to forget, ."

"Do you have any regrets, Sherlock? Anything you wish you hadn't done? Or something you wish you had?"

"Doesn't everybody? I regret breaking Mummy's prize Ming vase, for instance. But I certainly don't regret convincing her that Mycroft was the culprit."

"But nothing you've left undone, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I suppose there are a number of things, but there is nothing I can do about them at the moment. Except, perhaps, for…" And Sherlock slowly pulled her closer, bent his face to hers, and kissed her, quite passionately. "There, I feel better now. No more regrets."

"Oh, god, Sherlock, now you kiss me? We're up to our arses in a snowdrift, probably going to freeze to death before we starve, and now you decide that you regret never having kissed me!"

"Well, to be honest, it's not just abstaining from kissing that I regret, but to take any further action may involve frostbite of certain extremities which I do not feel comfortable exposing, so to speak."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are an insufferable git. A selfish, egotistical, socially challenged bastard! And, if I'm going to die before morning, I'm just glad that you're here with me…"

"I bit melodramatic, Dr. Hooper, as we are highly unlikely to perish before the sun rises, but I do find the your desire to share your death with me rather endearing…"

"Oh, shut up! You know what I mean!" Molly now cuddled further into the detective's chest, yawning loudly. "I'm getting really sleepy, Sherlock. They say that freezing to death is rather easy, actually. You just get very sleepy, and then just slowly drift away. This could be the end…"

"Or you could just be really tired, as you were awake before dawn to watch the sun rise over Lake Geneva! Go to sleep, Molly. I'll see you in the morning…"

"Maybe…" But before she could complete her thought, Molly had drifted off to sleep, with Sherlock following soon thereafter.

The pair were awakened hours later by the blinding light of sunlight shining on the vast expanses of newly fallen snow. Molly Hooper slowly blinked her eyes and looked up at her companion. "We're alive?"

"I hate to say I told you so, but…"

"I can't feel my toes, Sherlock!"

"Well, shake your feet around. If you don't hear them rattling around in your boots, that's a good indication that the haven't frozen, and snapped off in the night."

Molly was just about to give her companion yet another punch on his upper arm, when she was distracted by the loud whirring of helicopter blades. "What's that?"

"From the markings on the 'copter, Molly, it would appear to be Mycroft's minions coming to our rescue."

"I thought you were joking about the microchip, Sherlock!"

"So did I, Molly!"

The bright sun was already warming up the interior of the car, and the two quickly brushed aside the emergency blanket, and began to disentangle themselves, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Molly was stealing sideways glances at the man in the seat next to her as he ran his fingers through his curls, trying to restore some semblance of order. "Oh, god," she said with a heavy sigh, "I just want to forget this night ever happened!"

"Really, Dr. Hooper. I was rather thinking it would be a rather amusing story to tell our grandchildren. I'm sure little Violet and Sherlock III would enjoy it immensely!"

Hearing the words, Molly felt confident enough to meet his eyes full on, looking for any sign of teasing, or insincerity. To her complete astonishment, she found neither, and a smile quickly spread across her features. "On one condition only. Wait. Perhaps, two. You must leave out the part about the possible frozen extremities. And I will never allow you to name our child, or our grandchild, 'Sherlock'. Your real first name is William, so you will have to settle for that!"

Sherlock considered for a moment or two before responding. "Agreed! But don't think that I am setting a precedent here, allowing you to win this first point so quickly, Molly. I assure you that I will not always be so easy to live with."

"Really, you git? I never thought you'd be a walk in the park! But as long as we avoid mountain passes in Spring in the future, I'll think we'll be okay. Right?"

Sherlock took her hand in his, kissed her knuckles, and settled back in his seat, waiting for the small copter to scout the area for a landing spot. "Right, Molly. It seems you're always right."


End file.
